


Float to the Sky

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Ballet, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Competence Kink, Dancing, First Time, Frottage, Harry Watson/Clara - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Semi-Public Sex, Sweat, Unilock, past Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, medical student and rugby player, would like to experience his crushes without any interference from his sister. Failing that, he would like to study alone. Or at least not get inappropriate erections. Instead, when his sister inadvertently introduces him to ballet dancer Sherlock Holmes, John gets disturbance, embarrassment, and sad wanking in loos. </p><p>At least on the first day of their relationship. On the second day, there are fistfights, mysterious journeys, and ballet like John's never seen, which really makes it all better.  Oh, and frottage. Lots of frottage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. my sister is a meddler and I'm glad I wore jeans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imrisah](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=imrisah).



> This fic would not exist without the [beautiful ballet!lock drawing](http://imrisah.tumblr.com/post/110745447381/shoves-in-all-the-faces-ballet-tattoo-lock-done) by [imrisah](http://imrisah.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. It is absolutely stunning, as is the video it's based on, Sergei Polunin dancing to Hozier's "Take Me To Church."
> 
> Thanks to Dralore-Shimare for the quick beta!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All John wants is to study undisturbed. He would also like to be left alone when he has inconvenient public erections.

_Although several ECG findings do indicate an increased risk of a future cardiovascular event, as described in this chapter, the overall sensitivity and specificity of the ECG for identifying individual patients..._

“Johnny!” John cringed as his sister’s voice echoed over the room, causing heads to turn here and there. Her girlfriend Clara trailed behind, laughing at Harry’s exuberance.

“I’m busy, Harry.”

“You aren’t. And I have something for you.” She launched herself into a chair and grinned at him from under her blond fringe.

“Is it edible? If not, I’m not interested.”

“It is VERY edible, Johnny, although you can’t eat it right now.”

“Then what’s the point?

“Oh, I think you’ll see my point quick enough.” She held out her mobile.

“I have an exam, Harry. Tomorrow.  Go away.”

“Come on, spoilsport,” Clara said. “You really won’t regret it. Even I didn’t.”

John narrowed his eyes.  

“Even you. Since when do you resist this terror?”

“Since rarely. But this time it really is worth it.”

“Fine,” John sighed. “But if I fail path., you are responsible. Directly responsible.”

“Nonsense. It’s all Harry. And maybe you. Now look!” She shoved the screen towards him again. John took it, ignoring their knowing exchange of expression.

It was a music video, or looked like one; a man, heavily tattooed, was sitting on his knees in a sunshine-filled building. John watched as he pushed his hand through dark curls, then began to dance.  His perfect body stretched up into the light, then collapsed again, back sliding into an impossible arch, the rip in the flesh-coloured tights showing the beautiful groove along his quadriceps.

“Put the earphones on, John!” Harry’s voice—unnecessarily smug, really—broke into his senses, and he looked up irritably.

“Good, isn’t it?” John rolled his eyes, but put them in, casually sliding the video back to the beginning. That back arch really was perfection, and every inch of the dancer’s long, lean body moved in ….oh. “Take Me to Church.” Harry really was not subtle at all.  She’d come out in her first year of uni, and now she was on a determined crusade to have him come out too. There was no rush, John thought;  it was nobody’s business but his own.

As the dancer took two slow dramatic steps John looked closer at his face, until now partly obscured by curls. Something was familiar about it; he had seen this man before, although he couldn’t place where. He kept watching, but his curiosity about the dancer’s face faded as the dancer leaped and balanced.  The aggressive movement towards the camera, and the flex of his stomach under his antler tattoos caught John right in the lower belly.

He could see a sheen of sweat along the dancer’s skin, and a flush of saliva came to his mouth.

When the video ended, John was hard and aching, and he shifted uncomfortably, cursing Harry. Thankfully she was busy kissing Clara, so he was able to adjust himself under the table before they came up for air.

“So you liked it, right?” Harry grinned.

“Sure,” he said warily.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. It’s that guy you have been crushing on forever, the one in the medical library.” Harry leaned back in Clara’s lap, her face flushed with completely pointless triumph.

“How do… Harry, you’re a menace.”

“She is.” Clara laughed, squeezing Harry’s arse.

“It’s true. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he dances for Ballet Ireland.”

“Don’t be daft, Harry. He spends too much time in the med library for that even to be possible.”

“Look, John,” she said, grabbing her mobile. She pressed ‘play’ again, and they all stared. Harry’s finger hovered over the pause button, waiting for a clear shot of the dancer’s face, but somehow they had watched it almost all again when an unfamiliar voice broke their concentration.

“That _tour en l’air_ is wrong,” someone said, “They wouldn’t let me reshoot it.”

John froze.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the voice continued, “You don’t know much about ballet, do you?”

Silence.

“Don’t need to,” Harry said cheekily, sticking out her hand, “Not looking at the dancing. Harry Watson, and this is my brother John.”

Clara coughed.

“And my girlfriend, Clara.”

“Yes, I gathered,” Sherlock said dryly. John watched as his large hand engulfed first Harry’s, then Clara’s. John wished he could stand, but he didn’t dare.

“John is single.” Harry said, “and interested.”

“HARRY!” both John and Clara roared. Sherlock, leaning nonchalantly against the chair, looked at John speculatively.

“I’m saving time.”

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said. “I’ve seen him look at the reference librarian in the med library—he’s married, by the way—and me.”

John stared at him in an awkward, itchy disbelief.  Why was this happening to him?  His sexuality was being discussed, openly, in the coffee shop, by his sister and the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, while he sat there with an erection that would not go away.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were every colour and no colour, and he was not breaking eye contact, even though the silence stretched out into an uncomfortable length. Harry was, for once, absolutely silent; John could feel her watching them as though enraptured, and Clara just stood there, mute and grinning.

 

Finally, John could stand it no longer and looked down at his textbook. Sherlock nodded at it, then shook his head.

“ _Braunwauld’s_. Bit outdated, no?”

“It’s fine,” John snapped, before he could stop himself, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“John’s very studious,” Harry squeaked out; thankfully Clara came to her senses and yanked Harry off to the coffee machines before she could continue that thought.

John stood, because he was able to now, mostly, and gathered his books.

“Well,” he said, looking up--way up--at Sherlock. “This has been absolutely mortifying, so thanks very much.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“See you in the library.” he said, and somehow the pitch of his voice caught John in the belly.

“Right,” John said, nodding, and putting his books in front of him to avoid complete humiliation, fled the cafeteria.

 

John made it as far as the chemistry building before he had to duck into the loo and have a wank. He picked the farthest stall in the corner and grabbed a handful of paper before he started; his erection had flagged but as soon as he had shot the bolt it came back, almost painful against his zip.

  
All it took was a firm grip and several efficient strokes--and the picture of Sherlock Holmes in his mind--and he was coming, hard enough to miss the paper and hit the wall. He wiped it down, angry with himself even in the post-orgasmic endorphin flush. Stupid hormones; couldn’t he direct them to someone a little less...unattainable? He saw, again, Sherlock’s long sleek body moving through the light and space of the old building, and shook his head. Out of his league, certainly. Wanking in a public bathroom was as close as he’d get.  Washing his hands, John stomped off home; he’d just have to study in his tiny little sardine-can flat if he was too pathetic to be out in public. 


	2. raindrops in your hair and danger in your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John slunk out to get another book about myocardial infections, he didn't expect a fight in the library or arguments in the middle of the Irish countryside, but he got both. 
> 
> With Sherlock Holmes.

John was still grouchy the next day. Not only had the path. test been incredibly difficult, Sherlock had been right, dammit, and he needed more information about myocardial infections than the _Braunwauld’s_ had. He shrugged on a pair of jeans, grabbed his wallet  and headed out the door; he was halfway down the stairs before he went back to check his hair and brush his teeth.

Just in case, of course.

The UF section was at the top of a flight of stairs, and John gave the reference desk, where Lestrade’s sleek grey head was bent over a file, a wide berth. He really didn’t need to see either Lestrade or Sherlock anytime soon.  The bank of computers was right around the corner; thankfully, they were all empty, and he sank down on a stool with relief.

He was halfway down the search results when he heard someone say the word “Sherlock.” He froze, hands floating above the keyboard, and sure enough, he heard the unmistakable rumble of Sherlock’s voice. It sounded angry, this time, though, rather than languidly bored as it had in the cafeteria.

 

None of his business, though, was it? He turned back to his search results, but it was futile; the thrum of Sherlock’s voice made it impossible to concentrate.

Dammit. He should stay right here, get his books, and then go home.

 

Sherlock’s voice got louder, as did that of his apparent antagonist. John listened to every word.

“Leave it alone, Sherlock; I don’t bloody care.”  
“You know it’ll help you. Why are you so unutterably self-satisfied, Seb?”

“And you aren’t? That’s bloody rich.”

“I am not failing my medicinal chemistry module, and you are.”

“I’ll get through without you.”

“You can’t possibly, unless you… oh. Oh. I see.”

“Just sod off, Sherlock, for real.”

“But you…”

“If you don’t leave me the fuck alone, I will end up in jail, Sherlock, because if you tell me one more uncomplimentary thing about myself I will fucking kill you.”

“Typical. Letting your massive ego overshadow your… auuuugh.”

 

John leaped to his feet and sped round the corner. He arrived on the scene at--to his everlasting embarrassment--the same time as Lestrade. They wrestled Seb and Sherlock apart; John held Seb, and if he held him a smidgen too tight, well, that was just the way of things, wasn’t it?

“Dry up, Sherlock,” Lestrade hissed.

“Oh, take his side, Lestrade, very mature.” Sherlock shot back.

“Not your best, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, calmly. “You know, and I know, and--indicating John--probably this bloke knows, that Seb’s a complete arsehole. Just fuckin’ leave it; he’s not worth it.”

Sherlock relaxed, infinitesimally, into Lestrade’s grip. John squeezed Seb a little tighter.

“Bastard,” Seb grumbled. “Let me go. I won’t hurt him; I just have to go and study.”

“Cheat, rather,” Sherlock spat. Lestrade shook him a bit.

“Sherlock,” John began. He was about to say more, but Sherlock broke in.

“John. I have something for you.”

John almost let go of Seb in his surprise. He saw Lestrade loosen his grip, too, apparently flabbergasted, and Sherlock broke free.

“Come on, John. Let’s go.” he said, and turned to stalk away.

“Oh, thanks, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “Better follow him, then....John?” he said.

John didn’t hesitate. With one final squeeze on Seb’s wrists, he scurried out of the library after Sherlock.

Sherlock had made it all the way to the car park by the time he’d caught up properly, and was starting a beat-up, open-roofed green Land Rover.

“Get in,” he said, flashing a shark-like smile at John.

“Why the hell should I?” John shot back. “I don’t even know you, really.”

“You know enough. I’m Sherlock Holmes. Get in.”

John got in.

 

“You’d have punched him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,but he’d have deserved it.”

“True.”

They drove in silence for a while. Adrenaline was fizzing through John, a cocktail of disbelief and excitement. He had no idea where he was going, but he wanted to be going.

Sherlock caught his eye, and they both laughed, suddenly.

“I’m just amazed you haven’t punched him yet.” John laughed.

“Punching’s too good for him,” Sherlock grinned.

“I’m amazed Lestrade hasn’t punched him yet. I’ve heard him yell at the ref. desk staff.”

“Lestrade has a lot of restraint. And patience.”

“I see,” John said, then blushed, suddenly, as he thought of Lestrade’s handsome silver hair and surprisingly toned arms.

“He is reasonably attractive, “ Sherlock said, “At least you have good taste.”

John stared.

“Oh, come on. He was holding me back, you’re already attracted to him...not a great leap.”

“And you’re not?” John could have bitten his tongue out, suddenly, but he let it go.

“As I said, he’s reasonably attractive, as these things go. And he’s a very generous lover. But he’s married now.”

“Ah.” John really couldn’t think of anything else to say, then, but as they drove, another question came bubbling up.

“How do you even manage to be in the library?” he asked.

“I need to, don’t I? Chemistry requires some studying-although not much.” Sherlock said.

“But.. don’t you have to train? When do you sleep?”

“Ah, sleep. Sleep is boring.”

“It’s medically necessary!”

“My brain doesn’t need it.”

“Yes it does,” John said, then shook himself. Why was he contradicting this beautiful human? But he couldn’t help himself. Even Sherlock’s frown was about a hundred times more fascinating than anyone else’s anything, and so he kept in step and didn’t censor himself.

“And you’ve slept with Lestrade.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“No,” John said. “Just curious.”

“I never indulge curiosity. Unless it’s my own.”

“So if I ask where we’re going, I get no answer?”

“You might.”

John laughed, the fresh air flying into his mouth. There was a fine drizzle too-- a constant in Ireland in the spring--and his hair was getting damp but somehow it didn’t matter.  Sherlock turned up the music, and they rode along in companionable silence. John snuck glances at him as the they drove; the rain was progressively soaking into those black curls and that white t-shirt, and yet he got more beautiful by the moment.

When Sherlock indicated, then turned right on  a small road, John watched carefully.  When a church appeared, windowless and white, his mouth dropped open.

“This isn’t…” he said, too surprised to finish the sentence.

“But it is,” Sherlock smiled, and swung out of the car. “So what are you waiting for?”

John leaped out too.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“So I could dance for you.” Sherlock said. His eyes were the same colour as the sky now.

“Why?”

“Because you like to watch me.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“That’s the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience.”

“And you’re a genius.”

“I am.”

“Humble too, I see,” John said, and was rewarded with a bright grin.

 

The inside of the church was less beautiful in the diffuse light, but John felt a frisson of anticipation just seeing it all. Sherlock set his phone in one corner, and, with a complete nonchalance that left John breathless, stripped his wet shirt off, then his jeans, and began to warm up.

“And what happens,” John asked, “if we’re caught here?” It was a wet-blanket question but he needed to diffuse the tension already. He recognized those tights from the video, and he was already starting to get hard.

“Oh, I know the owners. They owe me a favour.”  Sherlock said, one long leg extended behind him.

“Yes, but what if people see us?”

“Why?” Sherlock grinned, turning towards him, “Do you have anything in mind?”

Fuck it, John thought. He looked Sherlock up and down with no subtlety at all.

“I might,” he said. Sherlock arched his back, a smile on his lips. God, that torso.

“Then we’ll just have to take the risk,” Sherlock said. “Besides, you like the danger.”

“You think you know that, do you? Bit presumptuous.”

“Please. Playing rugby at your height--not to mention body mass? Immediately jumping into fights with strangers? Driving off with strangers? You’re an open book, John Watson.”

“Am I?” John could smell Sherlock now, a light, warm scent distinct from the soft, rain-filled air. “What if it’s not that I like danger, but that I am dangerous?”

“Oh, you are dangerous. Very dangerous. But,” and Sherlock came right into his space and breathed him in, “Not to me.”

“You think so, do you?” John said, moving towards him so their chests were almost touching. He held Sherlock’s eyes as he had in the cafeteria, but without the embarrassment. He was all in now, and he could never resist a challenge. “We’ll see.”

His words echoed in the empty space, and hung there. Their breath mingled; John could see every fleck of freckle on Sherlock’s face, every lash around each startling eye. He could feel each pulse in his body, and thought he saw an answering throb in Sherlock’s neck.

  
It was Sherlock that broke the gaze this time. With a ragged smile, he turned back to his mobile and pressed play.


	3. that rip in your tights is the key to the universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the music's on, who leads the dance?

As Sherlock laid himself out on the floor to the opening bars of the song, John looked at him from head to toe again. Each part of him was flawless, down to the hole in his tights; John felt his mouth water again, but held still, waiting.

 

Sherlock’s first movements were even more striking in person than on video. When he turned and leaped, he seemed to hover, weightless, in the air. Only when he landed and the building shook did his weight  re-assert itself, solid and present.

 

Like the dance, really. But it was different, somehow- not like the video; Sherlock wasn’t wringing his hands and arching his body as though he were in pain. It was lighter, happier.

Sherlock  jumped again, then landed, took two graceful, running steps and twirled, arriving close to John in the blink of an eye.

 

“It’s not the same,” he said, breathing hard.

“How did you…” John asked, but he was off again, into a sky-high leap and feather-light balancing move. John was mesmerized and disturbed by the weight and power of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock seemed to draw the space around him, to fill it and open it at once; John wasn’t quite sure how to be in that space, so he leaned against the wall, trying to be out of the way and present at once.  He wanted to run his hands all over him, but he also wanted to watch, desperately.

 

The next pass across the floor was even more spectacular, a series of leaps that brought Sherlock close in to John again. Warmth radiated from his body, and his face was open. He smelled of sweat already, sharp and appealing; John drew a shuddery breath, not quite daring to touch yet. Sherlock smiled, slowly, then took off once more, only a few steps away this time, and back, teasing.

 

John thought Sherlock would kiss him when he moved into John’s space this time, but no, he just let John take him in again before stretching high--John followed the antler tattoo with his eyes, wondering how far down it really went under those tights--and taking a whirly step away.

 

“Scared?” John asked, loading his voice with challenge, and Sherlock stopped in mid-step and stalked back dramatically. John stood his ground.

“No.” Sherlock said, shortly, and kissed him. His mouth was as plush as it looked, and his breath was harsh into John’s mouth. The heat rose off his body and John burned with it, the slide of their tongues a frustration and a relief at once.

Sherlock shivered when John bit his lower lip. John broke the kiss and looked into Sherlock’s face again. Disbelief cascaded down his spine--how was someone so beautiful looking at him like that, like he wanted to consume him and be consumed?

Sherlock caught the uncertainty and stepped away, executing a series of beautiful pirouettes.

“Come back,” John said, almost inaudibly, and Sherlock jumped back to him, landing neatly at his feet.

“I’m going to kiss that smugness off your face.” John growled. Sherlock’s pupils dilated, and John hummed in pleasure.

He took Sherlock’s arms in his hands and pivoted him so that he was against the wall.

“Stay still, now,” he said, and brushed his lips over Sherlock’s again, once, twice, three times, until Sherlock made a tiny throaty noise of disappointment. Then, John pulled his mouth away and started to work down Sherlock’s neck, tasting, softly, the salt and sleekness of him. He was aching already, but he could not resist following the tattoos along Sherlock’s shoulders. He kissed the join between arm and body on each side, savouring the delicacy of his skin. Then, as Sherlock made another, louder noise, John seized one broad wrist and raised Sherlock’s arm so he could smell the fresh sweat in the hollow of his arm. He traced his tongue along down Sherlock’s ribs, and Sherlock gasped, then giggled as John reached the edge of his rib cage.

Sweeping back up, he kissed Sherlock again, without teasing, and the giggling stopped. Sherlock took hold of John’s waist, pulling at his t-shirt; his enormous warm hands spurring John to greater endeavours with his tongue.

“Take off your shirt,” Sherlock gasped, and John dragged his mouth away to pull the thin fabric over his head.

“You’re beautiful,” Sherlock said, and though John creased his eyes at the extravagant compliment, Sherlock’s face was perfectly sincere.

“I’m broken,” John said, indicating the scar on his left shoulder.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock said, bending to kiss it. “Imperfect is not broken, never mistake it.”

“Liar.”

“I never lie.”  
“Unless it suits you.”

“True,” Sherlock said,looking into his eyes, “And now, it does not suit me.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” John was flabbergasted by the unexpected warmth in Sherlock’s face. They kissed again, deep and slow, and Sherlock’s hips rolled against John’s in an age-old rhythm. John seized Sherlock’s waist and held them together for a moment; Sherlock’s bent knees meant that their cocks were aligned, and John kissed him harder, desperate to be as close as possible.

The contact between their bodies was damp, and the pleasure sparked through it ever faster. Sherlock’s hands roamed along John’s back, caressing his muscles and cupping the back of his head. They clung to each other, dizzy with sensation.

Then, John, seized with a new impulse, moved his hands from Sherlock’s lower back, past his impossibly lush arse, to his thighs. Breaking their kiss, he sank to his knees and traced his thumb around the hole in Sherlock’s tights, along that line of muscle that led up to his hips. Sherlock was heated and warm under his hands, and he pressed his face to Sherlock’s groin, breathing in the musk and scent.

Sherlock pushed back against him, his thighs trembling; John slid one hand up to cup the bottom of Sherlock’s buttock and traced his mouth along Sherlock’s cock, clearly outlined now under the tights. He bit, gently, and Sherlock’s hips arched to meet the pressure.

“Please,” Sherlock begged, and John ran his fingers under the waistband of the tights and bit again. A sharp “oh!” filled the air, and John tasted salt.

Suddenly mad to have Sherlock in his mouth, he started to peel them back. Sherlock wriggled in his impatience, which hindered rather than helped, but John was grateful for the distraction. He let Sherlock slow the process, working the thick tights away from Sherlock’s warm skin in tiny increments, freeing his cock slowly and maddeningly.

By the time the tights were in a puddle on the floor, Sherlock was writhing in despair. His cock, already a beautiful pink, was steel-hard, and his balls were drawn up. John himself was barely functional; his own cock was trapped in a cruel prison of jeans and boxers, but if he stopped to make himself more comfortable he wasn’t sure he’d last. Best to concentrate on what was before him and damn the consequences, he supposed.

He took Sherlock in hand, admiring the smooth heat against his palm. A clear drop appeared at the end of his cock and John licked his lips before sliding the heavy head into his mouth.

Sherlock sighed, his knees trembling. John took him in further, as lightly as he could manage. He wanted so much to take, to suck Sherlock hard, hands on those perfect thighs, until Sherlock came with a shout, but he also wanted to make it last as long as they could both manage.

It turned out, after a long silent moment,  that Sherlock was not as patient as that. John had only just managed to take most of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, spit-slick and hot, when Sherlock pushed him back and sank to his knees in turn. He caught John in a quick, demanding kiss while his hands fumbled at the button of John’s jeans. John leaned back and let him, sighing relief against that delicious mouth as his cock came free out into Sherlock’s large, warm grasp.

He only allowed himself a moment, though; he was painfully close already.

Pinning Sherlock to the ground, he slicked one hand along their cocks and then rolled their hips together. Sherlock groaned into his mouth, then arched his hips up as he had in the dance, rocking John higher up than he had imagined possible.

They clung together in silence, their bodies struggling together towards pleasure. Sherlock had gone quite quiet, all his earlier moans and whines lost in John’s mouth.  John pulled back, and, yielding to temptation, bit Sherlock on the neck.  Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and his body tensed. Two more strokes, and he was coming; his pleasure, borne on near-silent huffs of breath, brought John to his own orgasm, piercing bright in the soft light of the church.

 

As John’s last tremors subsided, Sherlock’s breathing was still shuddery, and so John took Sherlock’s mouth again, and, in long, slow strokes, kissed him and held his hips until Sherlock lay still and soft. Then, he rolled to the side and looked his fill at the long, wrecked body before him.

 

“You were right.” Sherlock said.

“I was right?” John started up, surprised. “Somehow I don’t think you say that often.”

Sherlock grinned up at him, mouth still pink.

“Nevertheless. You are dangerous.”

“Oh,” said John, unaccountably pleased. “Told you.”

“Of course, you were also wrong.”

“Impossible,” John said, rolling on to his back and stretching. Plywood floor or no, he was suddenly very comfortable.

“Entirely possible,” Sherlock said, straddling him. “What you do not realize is that I am equally dangerous.”  
“I’m terrifed,” John said.

“You’re not,” Sherlock whispered, as he bent to kiss John’s navel, “But you should be.”

“Do your worst, then, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Much later, as they drove back through the soft Irish night with broad smiles on their faces, John was forced to concede to himself that perhaps the danger did go both ways. Sherlock’s mouth had been predictably sinful, and every time John looked over at that beautiful profile in the driver’s seat, he felt a little faint.

  
He knew already, though, that Sherlock would be unbearable if he admitted it, and so all he said when they got to his tiny flat was “Come up to bed?” 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on several highly improbable premises. First, that Sherlock would be a dancer in the corps at Ballet Ireland while still being an undergraduate at Trinity College Dublin. Second, that John would be in an eating establishment on the Trinity College campus when the medical school is not, as far as I can tell, actually on that campus, is a blatant plot device for which I will hope to be forgiven in the afterlife. In addition, I have no idea where the building for the video is, or who it belongs to.
> 
> However, that the object of one’s crush might up behind one’s group of friends while one is talking about the aforementioned crush…well, that exact thing happened to me in Grade 10, and I did end up making out in a park with the school’s most popular trombone player not 48 hours later, so let nobody say that at least some of this fic isn’t based in reality.
> 
> The quotation at the beginning of Chapter 1 comes from Braunwald's Heart Disease: A Textbook of Cardiovascular Medicine, by Douglas L. Mann, Douglas P. Zipes, Peter Libby, Robert O. Bonow


End file.
